


Seeing Through Him

by Path



Category: Exalted
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-14
Updated: 2011-03-14
Packaged: 2017-10-16 23:26:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/170506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Path/pseuds/Path
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been years since Pale Mercy met the Black Heron, but he cannot escape her eyes...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seeing Through Him

It was her eyes that came first. He saw them through closed eyes, vivid, almost lurid green, eyes a colour no natural being should bear. They were dominating, completely controlling, and as he saw them emerge through his dreams night after night, so he sees them now, blinking open too widely, absorbing him utterly. As her eyes open, so do his own, and the saturated tone of them bleeds into the air around her. He looks up from his chair to see her standing there, staring down at him with emeralds for eyes, and feels that he should rise and kneel simultaneously.

He tries for the first and results in the second; his knees shake with nervous energy and can't hold him. He crouches before her, a pale wraith to her shadow. She does not quite touch his chin as she moves, a hand gloved in black lace and dangling dark pearls gesturing him to rise. The simple motion speaks volumes, evoking a caress, only an instant away from the cold hand drifting across his lips and cheek. She says nothing- she has no need to. Her language, the tiny gestures and faint motions, the incline of the head and the curve of the lips, speak in words his Circlemates could never understand. But he, he knows, is different.

She has come to him, and not to them, for all Danath is God-King and Jekka Ka-Khan. The three of them were the ones that met her, but he knows without her ever speaking that she would never go to them. It is he she wants, Mercy who dreams of her, Mercy who comprehends the subtlety that was lost on the others.

Her head tilts almost imperceptibly, and she repeats the gesture with her hand. His thoughts had wandered, and her motion reflects her impatience: the gaze now evokes sternness and not merely intensity, and the hand as a slap, no longer a caress. He stands awkwardly before her, and though her body is tiny, their eyes are on a level. He wonders on that for a flickering moment before remembering how she hovered through their battle deep in the tunnels, her feet inches from the ground. He looks down, and indeed, can see the empty space where her feet should have touched the floor.

Her head whips up, chin protruding, anger at his insolence, his slowness. Her hand now evokes dismissal, that of a queen or empress, and his heart catches at the thought of her vanishing. He bows his head, calming his thoughts, and allows her being, the essence of her, to fill him. She eyes him with skepticism, before extending a hand- he may be seated. He takes his seat once more, and she moves to drift behind his chair. One cold hand extends past his shoulder, and traces its way up his jaw, from lips to chin, up to his ear, and then slowly down his throat. He does not hear her terrifying weapon fall to the floor, but he feels her other hand on his shoulder in a vise grip that no Dawn could mimic. She could hold him forever with a single hand, and the quick shiver of fear at his helplessness runs up his spine, the delicious terror of being caught in a trap filling him, a counterpoint to the pulsing warmth her other hand evokes.

The left hand moves to the front of his throat, traces down the line to the hollow between his collarbones, and then lower, past the loose neck of his robe. He feels lace-clad fingers splay against his thin chest. They pause an instant over his heart. He knows she is considering the hot blood pumping through his body, thinking of the potential of another dead Solar, but the decision remains the same as the last time, and her hand continues drifting and tracing.

She shifts, pulling her hand from the robe only until she is before him, and then she kneels- she kneels to _him_ \- and is pulling his clothes from him with none of the awkwardness or moments of laughter that usually come at this point as lovers untangle themselves. One moment they are there, the next, simply gone. He is aware of looking small in his chair, body slim and pale, ribs perhaps too evident, but he is not afraid of her opinion- she would not be here if he did not desire her, and that is enough for now.

Her hands begin to move, stroking up his thighs and stomach, over his chest. One tangles in his hair and remains there, the other flits about, moving from throat to ear, tracing a finger down his side. He is long since erect, her gestures and expressions too laden with desire, her fingers cleverer by far than any he's seen. She bends her head, and he feels her tongue trail over his shaft. She takes him in her mouth for the briefest instant as she reaches the tip, tongue circling. He is shuddering and twisting, hips pressing toward her. He would call what she does "teasing", but cannot imagine her as anything but his intense, dark goddess, incapable of a light-hearted thought or stray smile. Still, her tongue retreats, and the left hand takes him, the lace oddly soft against him. She begins stroking, and he moans, the feeling beginning to make his mind shut off, his thoughts swirl.

She places her tongue against him only infrequently, and each time he feels drawn to the very edge before she resumes with her hand. His sounds are longer, less controlled, and his breaths come raggedly, until finally her mouth engulfs him entirely and he falls over the edge, spurting into her, gasping for air with one long, trembling cry.

He stays there for long moments before opening his eyes once more. His image of her flickers and disappears as he wills it away, and he is suddenly conscious of his own state: robe twisted and pulled away, head lolling against the back of his chair. One hand is twisted in his own hair, having pulled it into wild disarray, and one rests on his own shaft. He takes in a breath, lets it out with a whimper, feeling his euphoria vanishing. His anger and fear begin to well up, and he tells himself that it will be the last time. He clasps his head in his hands and closes his eyes...

... and sees her green ones staring into him once more.

**Author's Note:**

> Pale Mercy is Bystanderman's Eclipse caste, and Princess Magnificent With Lips of Coral and Robes of Black Feathers is obviously White Wolf's.
> 
> This is one of the first smut fics I ever wrote.


End file.
